Lovers and Gamblers

by Jackie Collins

  Maybe Linda was right. Maybe a man who would think only of her pleasure was what she needed. Or Cody, if only she could will this feeling in Cody’s direction.

  They had reached the car. Thankfully Dallas slid behind the wheel. She banished Al from her thoughts and tried to concentrate on what Linda was saying. Al King was bad news. Even she knew that.

  Cody saw the car Dallas was driving approach, he managed a wave, indicated the parking lot attached to the building, and then turned to Irene who stood demurely beside him. Irene had been his brilliant idea – well, actually Evelyn, not Irene – but Evelyn had been in the midst of mother problems and unable to make lunch. Irene was second best, and she looked it. He had not seen her for several weeks and she appeared to have gained ten pounds. And why had he never noticed how hairy she was? Throughout their two-year intimate relationship he had never before noticed the fact that she had the suspicions of a moustache. She did have great legs, though – short but great.

  ‘It’s nice to see you again, Cody,’ Irene said. ‘I couldn’t imagine why I hadn’t heard from you.’

  ‘I told you what with leaving the agency and everything I’ve just been so busy. But I’m really glad you could manage lunch today.’

  She squeezed his arm. ‘I have missed you. When am I going to see you…’ She paused meaningfully. ‘Properly?’

  He wondered briefly if a moustache and an extra ten pounds would affect their previously quite erotic sex life. He decided it probably would.

  ‘I don’t know. Work, work, work – you know how it is.’

  ‘Oh, I know, I know. You don’t have to tell me. Why, this week my boss—’

  ‘Here they come,’ interrupted Cody, and as usual he was knocked out by Dallas. She really was the most unbelievably beautiful girl. She strode towards him like a graceful leopard, her long hair blowing around her face. Her body emphasized by the thin silk shirt tucked into white jeans. He hardly noticed the girl with her, every female seemed to be nonexistent next to Dallas.

  ‘Hi there,’ she said, presenting him with a hug and a kiss. ‘Told you I’d only be away a minute. This is Linda, she’s going to be spending a few days with me.’

  He smiled at Linda, blackly wondering if she had been involved in the previous night’s orgy.

  Irene stepped forward. ‘My name is Irene Newman,’ she announced formally, pumping Dallas by the hand, ‘no relation to Paul!’ giggle, giggle. ‘I’m so pleased to meet you, Cody has told me all about the wonderful contract he’s gotten you.’ She paused, squeezed Cody’s arm in an intimate fashion. ‘If there is anything I can do for you, please say. Cody tells me you’re new in town. I know he’s rented a house for you, but y’know – any girl things I can help out on – beauty parlour, gym – oh, and I have a marvie place where I get a discount on sports clothes. If you like I can…’

  Cody listened in amazement. Irene the talker. Was there no end to the surprises she had in store for him?

  They viewed the office space, Irene chattering throughout.

  ‘What do you think?’ Cody asked Dallas.

  ‘Wonderful!’ replied Irene. ‘You could move in tomorrow. All you need is a desk and a nice chair. I knew a place on Fairfax…’

  Dallas shrugged helplessly.

  On the way down in the elevator she pulled Cody to one side. ‘I think we’ll pass on the lunch. I didn’t realize you had a date, why didn’t you say?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, she’s just an – er – old friend. Come on – you must have lunch.’

  Dallas glanced at her watch. ‘No, really I have to be at the studio by two, I won’t have time. Linda and I will grab a hamburger somewhere.’

  He nodded miserably. What a bad idea Irene had been. ‘I’ll call you later, then.’

  ‘Fine.’ She dazzled him with a smile. ‘Maybe we can have an early dinner.’

  ‘I don’t know, I might be tied up.’ He could kick himself for being so petty and stupid, but he couldn’t help it.

  She looked disappointed.

  ‘But I’ll try,’ he added lamely.

  ‘Do that,’ she replied with an understanding smile.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Bernie had noticed the two girls in every city they had visited. He had seen them only as part of huge crowds of girls who hung around the hotel entrances and concert venues. They had not really registered properly until Chicago, when he had suddenly realized that they were following Al across the country. They were both quite young, but neither of them was very pretty.

  He ambled over to them, and found out their names. I mean – what the fuck – these two were true fans. A little publicity wouldn’t go amiss. He could throw a few free tickets their way, some souvenir programmes, a T-shirt or two.

  Plum was nineteen and fat, a little larger than Bernie himself.

  Glory, on the other hand, was extremely skinny. Sixteen, with freaked-out hair and a funny pointed face.

  They were ecstatic that they had finally been noticed. Plum informed Bernie that they had pooled their savings, given up their jobs, just to be close to Al. Sometimes they hitched across country, sometimes took a train. From Miami to Chicago they had invested in plane fares to get them there in time.

  ‘Well, girlies, today you just got lucky,’ Bernie announced. ‘Be back here around six and I’m gonna take you in and let you meet the big man himself. How does that grab you?’

  ‘I’ll faint,’ quavered Glory. ‘Man, I’ll just faint right away!’

  ‘Can you give us tickets for tonight?’ asked Plum shrewdly.

  ‘Sure,’ agreed Bernie. ‘You mean you came all this way and you don’t have tickets?’

  ‘Yeah, we got tickets. But like, we need the bread – so we’ll make a little green stuff on ours – use yours.’

  Bernie shrugged. ‘Whatever turns you on.’

  Glory giggled. ‘Al turns me on. Like he turns my legs to jelly, man. Like when I’m not even stoned, he turns me inside out. Ain’t no one can do that to me less I’m out of it.’ She gripped Bernie’s arm tightly. ‘You know him, you’re tight with him – tell him if he wants a trip will blow his head off…’ She paused, scratching desperately at her frizzy hair, her eyes glazed over, she almost fell.

  ‘She’s just hungry,’ said Plum stoically. ‘We haven’t eaten since the plane yesterday, and the crap they expect you to eat. I wouldn’t give that crap to a cat.’

  Bernie fished in his pocket, counted out five dollars, handed it to Plum. ‘Get some food and a wash or something. Fix yourselves up, I’ll have photographers here.’

  ‘On five bucks we’re gonna eat, wash, and fix ourselves up? Who you kiddin’?’

  ‘So don’t eat. You want to meet Al be back here at six.’

  Plum scowled. ‘Cheap.’

  Glory, revived, muttered, ‘I could blow the brains off a monkey!’ and lapsed back into a daze.

  Bernie peeled off another five dollars. ‘Buy her a steak, make her human.’ He started to walk away.

  ‘Don’t forget our tickets,’ Plum shouted after him.

  * * *

  Al had slept most of the day away. Then at five he had woken, decided he needed a woman, and Paul had tracked down Rita of the pneumatic boobs for him.

  ‘Don’t tell Van I’m here,’ she had pleaded, ‘he wouldn’t allow it. I’m supposed to work exclusively for him.’

  ‘Are you a pro?’ Al asked.

  ‘Of course not. I’m a model. Van pays me – very generously, so sometimes I do him little favours.’

  ‘Open your legs,’ Al said crudely. ‘I want to see if you’ve got a camera hidden up there!’

  She did not appreciate the joke. But she did service him expertly, and left him with a strong feeling of disgust.

  He did not take kindly to Bernie’s suggestion of a photo session with two fans who were trailing him across the country. But Bernie insisted. It was a story bound to make all the newspapers, and a nice human interest story for either Time or People.

&nbs
p; Glory and Plum turned up promptly at six in full battle-dress. Bernie would have bet that Plum had used the money to get Glory a shot of whatever she was hooked on. From a quiet little zombie she had turned into Miss Personality.

  Plum looked even fatter in blue jeans and a satin jacket. Glory even thinner in red stockings on stick legs, and a voluminous sweater.

  They pawed at Al like a couple of agitated puppies whilst the cameras clicked away. He smiled, joked, put his arms around them, presented them with signed photos.

  The cameras kept flashing.

  Glory whispered in his ear, ‘I’d like to swallow your cock all down in one piece, right into my stomach.’

  Al pushed her pleasantly away, extracted himself from Plum. ‘Enough, boys,’ he said to the photographers.

  ‘Dynamite!’ wheezed Bernie. ‘World-wide coverage tomorrow.’

  ‘Get ’em out of here,’ hissed Al, ‘I’ve got a show to think about.’

  * * *

  When he strode on stage, nothing else mattered. The disgust, the problems with Evan, the boredom, Edna, Dallas. Everything was obliterated as his music came crashing protectively round him.

  He opened up with ‘Blue Funk Rock’, followed it with ‘Keep It’ – both his own compositions. Then he launched into a medley of songs made famous by some of his favourite artists. Al Green’s ‘Let’s Stay Together’, Bobby Womack’s ‘I Can Understand It’, Wilson Pickett’s ‘Midnight Hour’, Stevie Wonder’s ‘You Are the Sunshine of My Life’. And to finish, Isaac Hayes’s ‘Never Can Say Goodbye’.

  The audience loved it. They would love it if he stood on his head and whistled ‘Dixie’!

  He was halfway through ‘Random Love’ when it happened. An explosion so muffled that only the people in the immediate vicinity were affected. But as some of those people were blown to bits, the panic and chaos spread within seconds.

  One moment Al was on stage singing his guts out to an ecstatic, screaming audience of thousands. The next he was being dragged off stage by Luke and Paul, whilst pandemonium raged below.

  The bomb, a small one, had been placed beneath a seat. It killed two people, mutilated seven, injured fifteen. By the time police and security guards were able to gain control of the panicking crowds five people had been trampled to death in the rush to leave the stadium. Fifty-eight people had been injured, and hundreds were in shock.

  It was an Al King concert many would never forget.

  Why? was the question everyone asked. How could anyone be so twisted and deranged as to want to kill innocent people?

  If a man with a gun had got up and shot Al it would have been understandable. After all any public figure from a politician to a rock star knew he lived under constant threat of assassination. That was one of the hazards of making it in the envy-ridden sixties and seventies.

  But to maim and injure like this…

  Two seventeen-year-old girls killed. A boy with his leg blown off. A woman without a foot… The list of horrors was endless.

  Bernie thought of the voice on the phone and shuddered.

  Fortunately he had reported the threats to the police. But there had been no telephoned threats in Chicago. No sick and twisted voice telling him what was going to happen…

  The police questioned him at length. They took charge of the hate mail Al received. They questioned everyone connected with the tour. They even questioned Al.

  By the time they were finished it was four a.m. and Bernie felt drained and exhausted. He collapsed into his bed at the hotel, not even bothering to remove his clothes. Fuck it. He needed sleep. The next morning he would have the world press to deal with. He had already spoken to the overseas news agencies. This kind of publicity… Who needed it? It would either make or break the tour. People were funny, if they got scared… Jesus – what the fuck. He swigged from a bedside bottle of scotch and then let his bulk sag onto the bed. His eyes closed, only for a minute it seemed, because immediately the phone was ringing. He snatched it up – ‘Bernie Suntan,’ he said quickly.

  ‘I told you,’ the voice whispered, ‘I warned you. I gave you a chance to stop him from performing his vile obscenities. God will punish sinners. This is just the first of many.’

  The line went dead.

  Wearily Bernie struggled awake and called the police. Why did this maniac, whoever he was, have to pick on him to confide in?

  * * *

  Lying in bed Al could not sleep at all. If it were not for him none of this would have happened. If he had not been appearing at the concert the crowds would not have been there – the bomb would not have been placed – the people would not have been killed and maimed. Once before, early in his career, something dreadful had happened. As he was escaping from a theatre one night a girl had somehow or other got enmeshed under the wheels of his car. She had not been killed, but crippled for life. He had not been driving, it was not his responsibility. But he had never forgotten that girl, and over the years he had sent her a continual stream of money and gifts.

  Guilt money.

  In a way he did feel guilty that he had so much. But Christ knows he worked hard enough for it. Each show he did seven pounds of sweat rolled off him. Hard physical work. It was harder than digging ditches.

  He thought of phoning Edna to let her know that he was OK. A news flash had probably reached England by now. But would she care? It was Evan she cared about.

  Evan was asleep in his own room somewhere in the hotel. Thank God he had not wanted to attend the concert that night. It had been a good idea of Paul’s to suggest that he didn’t keep him in the suite. They had been too much on top of each other, that’s why the boy had been getting on his nerves. Now things seemed much better. He gave Evan money and told him to go out and enjoy himself. Evan had not objected.

  Evan, in fact, was quite enjoying it. He had amassed one hundred and sixty dollars from the money his father threw his way. And he was free to buy girlie magazines and candy, and sit in his room and enjoy them.

  He put on the colour television and hardly budged from his room. Nobody bugged him. Occasionally Al would call him on the house phone and ask him if he wanted to come up to the suite. He always had an excuse.

  He had been watching a repeat of Kojak when the news came through about the bomb at Al’s show. For one icy, hopeful moment he thought that maybe his father had been killed. But no such luck. He listened with fascination to the reports of the bomb. Then anxious to see for himself, he left the hotel and took a cab over to the stadium.

  He couldn’t get anywhere near because of ambulances and fire trucks. He tried to push through, suddenly thinking of Nellie, but he got shoved back along with the rest of the ghouls who had come to watch.

  Surprisingly there appeared to be an air of cheerfulness amongst the crowds. Smiling, happy faces, hoping to get a glimpse of someone else’s misery.

  A television crew roamed around, sticking microphones in front of people’s faces to get their comments.

  ‘Why did you come here?’ a girl reporter asked a woman carrying a baby.

  ‘Better than television,’ the woman laughed, ‘like it’s real drama – y’know. Wouldn’t wanna miss it.’

  ‘Were you at the concert?’

  ‘Naw – jest came over when I saw the news.’

  Evan realized there was nothing to see. He had missed all the good bits. He looked around for a cab, but there were none about. He had no idea how to get back to the hotel, but he started to walk anyway, hunching his shoulders into his denim jacket, cursing the fact that he had not chosen to attend the one concert where something decent had happened.

  He did not notice the group of boys following him, boys about his own age.

  He did not notice them closing in on him, surrounding him, jeering.

  He stopped, unable to proceed anyway. Fright made him go cold.

  ‘Hey, asshole!’ screamed the tallest boy. ‘You got any money, honey?’ They all laughed, circling him.

  ‘W-w-what?’ stammered Eva
n.

  ‘Green sticky stuff, asshole. Give it – now!’

  Terrified, Evan groped into his pockets, found some change, handed it over.

  ‘Wowee – fifty fuckin’ cents! We found ourselves a real rich little motha!’

  Evan thought quickly of the one hundred and sixty dollars in twenties stuck in the back pocket of his jeans. They wouldn’t get that.

  ‘I haven’t got any more money,’ he said quickly, his voice breaking.

  ‘What’s with that accent, asshole?’ questioned the leader, ‘You foreign or sumpin’? Jeeze! Now listen, prick…’

  ‘Pigfuckers!’ yelled one of the boys, and they melted away into the night as if they had never existed in the first place.

  Relieved, Evan ran over to the patrol car cruising by. He informed them who he was, where he was staying, and what had happened.

  They told him off for walking around alone at night, shoved him in the car, and took him back to the hotel.

  In exchange he had to promise to produce Al for them to meet with their wives next morning. He had no idea how on earth he’d fix that.

  Safe in bed, his hundred and sixty dollars in a neat pile on the bedside table, he relived the scene. All of a sudden he was the hero of the piece. He had told them. Oh boy – he couldn’t wait to tell Nellie all about it. Maybe now she would like him. Maybe now he could ask her out.

  He fell asleep and dreamed that he was Al King. A far brighter star than the original.

  When Al found out about Evan’s adventure the next day he was pissed off to say the least. He posed with the policemen and their wives because he could hardly do anything else. But it was the last thing he needed. There was so much else going on. A trip to the hospital to visit the victims. Interviews to keep the world press happy. Television appearances.

  Marjorie Carter came to the hotel with her camera crew. She was a professional to her fingertips. The interview was real human interest stuff. How did he feel? What would he do? Did this tragedy change his plans for the future?

  Neither of them mentioned the night they had spent together. They were both excruciatingly polite.